Dear “Synthetic”:
Thank you for pointing out my tendencies to pose and strut and pretend I’m something other than a pathetic middle-class suburban married whitegirl. I appreciate it.

“The tragically hip neopunk is simply a construct, a pose, a sham.”

Indeed, it is. I’m not cool. I never have been. I never, ever will be. And, as I discussed in a February 13, 2001 self-satirizing column for The BG News, I am a poseur, too.

In fact, because I said it so well back then, here’s the link to the column.

So, again, I thank you. From the bottom of my sappy, happy heart,

Supa MB

p.s. I fucking hate anonymous commenters, don’t you? I mean, I think I know who you are, sweetcheeks, but since I don’t, I’ll drive myself crazy trying to figure it out. Thanks for that, too.

As The Rev. Spork points out, there are people born in the 1990s who are now entering puberty.

This, of course, explains why the horrible fashion mistakes of the 1980s are making a comeback. These tykes didn’t have to live through the pain and horror of neon green leggings and flat sparkly shoes with bows on them.

This explains why the previously mentioned Care Bears, as well as My Little Ponies and Dallas hair are on the upswing again.

And while I love I Love The 80s, I’m suddenly very alarmed at its popularity. Yes, it’s nostalgic. But that shit’s not cool! And what’s up with the golden-oldies flava of Greatest Hits of the 90’s CD collections?

It’s an endless cycle of pop culture regurgitation. The 70s were obsessed with the 50s [see: Grease]. The 80s were obsessed with the 60s [see: the resurgence of Op Art, Pop Art and tacky color combos]. The 90s were obsessed with the 70s [see: flared pants, a renewed interest in environmentalism]. And our present decade has the unfortunate obsession with the 80s.

Awful, awful, awful. And just like I had to during the 80s, I understand that I have to patiently sit back and wait for this all to pass, so I can relive the 90s again in 10 years.

I just hope I can make it that long.

Crap. Isn’t it a really, really bad sign if you find yourself and your situation parodied in the Onion? Todd passed along a link that, disturbingly, fit me to a T: Mom Finds Out About Blog.

[And Blogger has a solution].

I find this article hilarious on two levels: One, that I just posted a “Mom, Thanks for Reading” entry. And two, that I’ve just undergone the mom-found-it trauma about a month or two ago.

We worked through it, though. Turns out that, with her MomRadar, she knows most of my shit anyway, without me writing it down. And she’s cool with stuff, too. So I’m no longer freaking.

I presume y’all understand that this is … how you say … one aspect of myself. A now-slightly-censored aspect of myself. Not in a bad way, of course. But still. There might just be a few things Mom, Dad and Little Bro/Sis just don’t need to know about the Supa MB.

Even though, obviously, it’s all pretty much out there now.

And you know, if there’s one thing Mom taught me, it’s “Don’t Write Anything You Don’t Want Someone Else to Read.”

Unfortunately, the best advice often goes unheeded. Ah, well. You live, you learn, as Alanis once said. I’m getting the hang of it.

Now I’m just waiting for The Onion to put out a “Work Finds Out About Blog” story.

Then I’ll know I’m in trouble.

[Here’s a shoutout to the woman who gave me life, the man who made it all possible, and the siblings without whom I never would have turned out the way I am today.]

Hello. My name is Supa MB, and I’m a blog-aholic.

According to Marie Claire [the source for all knowledge, of course], I have an addiction to blogging. Also, I am a compulsive e-mail checker.

You may not have guessed this, but it is true. Too, too true.

It’s the reason I spend hours at a time crafting the words to portray my enormously boring life to all of my eager, passionate readers. The reason I actually spent $8.95 to forever secure the domain www.supamb.com. The long nights. The longer days. The research, the HTML code handbook, the minimalist dial-up connection.

It’s all for you.

I know you’re blushing; you’re making sweet self-deprecating remarks, but it’s all to no avail. I’m an addict, OK? I can’t stop. It’s what gets me through the day. I can only have experiences now that will yield good material. I take notes on my actual life. On diner napkins! In full view of everybody!

I don’t think there’s any hope. I have vomited my teeniest personal details for you. I have offered up every embarrassing factoid, moment, and thought that I have for you.

I learned cascading style sheets for you.

I have endured the media attention, of course. Suffered through the endless e-mails and comments. Taken to wearing sunglasses in public places, lest a photographer recognize me, capture my essence on film and sell it to the National Enquirer.

All this, I do for you. And what thanks do I get? Do I get the green? No. Do I get the lucrative book deal? No. Do I get complimentary peanuts? Only sometimes, and only with force.

Why, you may ask, do I continue this online self-flagellation? This verbal landslide of inward-directed analysis and commentary?

Mostly because I’m an abominable, self-obsessed, neurotic, needy, un-self-actualized person who would shrivel up like a dead mummy and die without writing things down.

But partly because I know at least one of you out there likes it.

Mom, thanks for reading.